Ty Gwyn

 

Today is a bit of a personal one. My brother came to live with me when he needed a place to stay after life gave him lemons. At first I was a little bit apprehensive. Having been thrown from the nest when I was younger, I hadn't had contact with my siblings in years, and I'd only met them again at my fathers funeral in 2015 when we were all adults. Before that I'd last seen him when he was twelve, so I didn't really know him. And on top of that I'm a big fan of my own space. I wasn't sure if I could cohabit, especially with someone I didn't know. But I was his only option, and I know my father had hoped we'd all reunite someday, so I did what I had to do.

 

So to break the ice and get to know each other, my brother and I returned to the home village to explore the places where we'd walked the dog with our father when we were children, and in doing so revisit this gorgeous ruin that I used to love. My interest in history, and my intrigue in the temporarity of all things developed in this part of the world, and this lovely farm house played a part in it. 

 

 

According to old maps, this adorable wreck is called Ty Gwyn, pronounced "Tee Gwin" for all you Saesnegs out there who can't get your head around a few additional vowels. And in Welsh it literally translates to "White House," or "House, white" because in Welsh the adjectives come after the nouns. 

 

As you can see, its days of being white are long behind it. 

 

 

There's a few sheep skulls dotted around, but anyone who has ever spent any time walking across fields in Wales won't find this remotely unusual. 

 

 

Moving around the front of the house...

 

 

The remains of the porch are still here, and someone has tied a flimsy piece of rope to the door to stop people entering. 

 

 I love the way the window frames are still attached. This one still has its hinges and latch. It still functions, even if it is a wreck (quoting my old dating profile there). 

And much to my delight, I managed to find a painting of the house before the upper floor collapsed.

 

(Image credit: Mary Cunnah.)

 

The artists name is Mary Cunnah, and she paints derelict houses and researches their history. As we can see, she came to Ty Gwyn back when it was still white and the upper floor and chimney were still where they were intended to be, and not all over the ground in bits. 

 

But to know that abandoned places were appreciated even then both blows my mind and makes me happy. Like surely this is an example of pre-internet urbex. It may have blown up with the introduction of social media, but people have been appreciating these places for decades, or even centuries. I mean, Philibert Aspairt is considered the first person to explore the Paris catacombs and he did it by candlelight in 1793. Sure, they found his body about a decade later, but that's not the point! Urbexers have existed for as long as humans have been wasteful with the shit they create, and any youtuber who tells you they invented the hobby is an imbecile. 

 

But apart from Mary Cunnah's claim that Ty Gwyn was abandoned in the 1950s, I really struggled to find more information on it. But I did find out that local boomers and Gen Xers did come here to smoke back when they were teenagers, so it was abandoned even then, and still arguably utilised by urbexers, although they probably didn't refer to themselves as such.

 

 

On the inside, it's still possible to see a pretty cute fireplace, peeking out from under a few feet of rubble.

 

 

And there's an old door frame sticking out of the rubber. But there's very little more to see. It's just a shall really. The upper floor, roof and chimney have all collapsed. If anything was left behind, it's buried. 

 

 

I climbed up some rubble to get a view of this small room near the front door. There's another door frame here, and a whole tree growing out of the house. 

 
 My brother was patiently panicking outside, amazed that I actually had the balls to enter such an unstable structure. I did say we didn't know each other.

 

There's a barn attached to the house.

 

 

During my research I found a passage in a book which made mention of a "Mr Pugh" of Ty Gwyn and his opinions on Sycharth, the former motte & bailey castle that was said to be the home of Owain Glyndwr, a medieval Welsh leader who sought to liberate Wales from the English. 

Given Sycharths proximity to where I grew up, I did wonder if this Mr Pugh was from this particular Ty Gwyn, and went down the rabbit hole of researching the Pugh family. I was very pleased with the results, finding mugshots for each and every one across multiple generations, only to find a census document that confirmed it was a completely different Ty Gwyn.

Goddammit.

But with a name like Ty Gwyn, I'm not surprised. There must be fifty billion of them scattered around Wales. And anyway, I did think it was odd that the Pugh family had seven employees living on the farm with them. The 1911 census mentioned three labourers, a wagoner, a cowman, a domestic and a nurse. It's far too many people for a house of this size.

But given that I'd found historic photos of all of them, I was downright miffed to find that I was researching the wrong damn people.

 

 

 

Moving on from my blunders, according to locals it was actually the Owen family who lived here at least as far back as the 1920s, with the last occupant being Bert Owen and his daughter Alma in the 1950s. But I haven't found any documents to verify these claims, and when I paddled into historic census data, I decided that there are far too many Owens in Wales, and far too many Ty Gwyn's in Wales to ever know for sure which Owens occupied this Ty Gwyn. There are even far too many Alma's from the local area, for some reason, which is odd because it's not exactly a common name. Is it short for something? Almatross? Almattoir?

 

 

There's another little barn nearby. 

 

 And there's an old bed frame here.

 

 

But one of the best features was the ice house. Neither myself or my brother had any recollection of this from our childhood, but my brother says that it was covered in nettles when we were younger so we must have completely missed it.

 

This is awesome!

 

But then onto the best part of any abandoned building, the toilet.

 

 In this case we have the remains of a privy. There's not much to see, but there is still some of the original seat frame sticking out of the wall there.

It's still in better condition than the toilets in some pubs and clubs. 

That's about it for Ty Gwyn, but there are a few more bits and bobs dotted around that I wanted to revisit.

 

 

The river was where we mainly hung out when we were children. We'd walk the dog here and sit and chill, or play in the river in the sunnier weather. But it was this big old weir that intrigued me as a child. Water no longer flows over it, although old Victorian maps say it does. Evidently the river has changed its course slightly over the years. The river didn't flow over the weir when I was a child either, but it did flow much closer to it, effectively cutting it off from access. It was also a lot more overgrown back then, but it was all the brickwork sticking out of the overgrowth that really captured my imagination.

 

 

There was this ruined barn too, which old maps show as a small farm called Ty'n y Coed, literally translating to "House in the woods."

I was sad to see had been reduced to rubble. When I was a child it still had a roof and it was possible to venture inside. There would usually be a dead sheep or something in here. I think this is where they came to die if they were injured or unwell.

 

 

It's quite sad to see it like this. 

 

 

I do have some fond memories of these places. But alas, it wasn't to last. My father was the adventurous one who got out and did things, staying active by walking the dog and taking us with him. When the parents marriage deteriorated, he moved away, and Mother was really a bit too pickled in the head to make a good go at the whole parenting thing. She didn't even want it. She just wanted to mingle with all the wrong people, and consequently began her steady decline into neglect and abuse. The entire culture of the household changed, and we didn't really venture out here as much as we once did. It was right on our doorstep but we just didn't think about it anymore. 

Really I'm mourning a childhood that was cut too short. The latter half was shitty, but before that my parents did actually make an attempt at being a healthy family. There were still cracks that I can only recognise in hindsight, but my father did try, and that's something.

I don't relate to Past Me really. It's like these memories belong to someone else and I have access to them somehow.

But let's not dwell on that. There are adventures to be had.

 

 

My brother and I hit a few more local nostalgic points, including stopping by an old train station yard that was now being built on, acknowledging the development with mixed feelings, knowing a significance of that particular spot that I'll maybe confide someday. In the long run my brothers renewed presence in my life was positive. He got me out doing stuff when I was in a bit of a rut. And he got me an air fryer, and that's redeemed everything he's ever done wrong, past, present and future. Alas, he got his life back together and moved out while I was in Poland, which I'll be covering on my travel blog about 32 blogs from now (spoilers!) which is pretty exciting.

In the nearer future, I'll be scratching the itch of all local itches next, and I am fucking thrilled. It's going to be amazing, and a much cheerier blog than this one.

And if you like my blogs then the best way to avoid missing it is by following my social media. Alas, the algorithms make me want to castrate myself with a cheese grater. I could reach more people if I just sang my blog out of my bathroom window while I'm having a shower. What's going on? I can't figure it out. But if you want to try it, I'm on Instagram, Facebook, Threads, Vero, Reddit, and also Twitter for some reason.

Thanks for reading!

The view from St Oswalds Church

 

I'm back in Oswestry! As some of my long-term readers will know, I used to live in this adorable little worldlet, hang out in its parks, piss in its toilets, and make the occasional appearance at local live music events. Speaking of which, an old chum from one such local metal band went on to become Mayor, which was unexpected but totally awesome.

 

I just checked and I actually do own two of his bands old CDs. They're like archaeological relics from my old life. It's very wholesome. Anyway, Mayor Jay was able to pull some strings for me, and get me permission to photograph the view from one of Oswestry's most prominent buildings, St Oswald's church.

 

So for anyone not familiar with Oswestry, like everyone in the world except for people from Oswestry, St Oswald was a historic figure who allegedly fell in battle somewhere around here way back in 642. Having been sliced and diced quite a bit, various parts of Oswald were no longer attached, and according to legend, a large bird yoinked his arm and flew off with it. It took the arm to a tree, which became invigorated and full of life, and then when the bird dropped the arm, a spring emerged from the ground where it landed. Both the spring and the tree are said to have healing properties. For a Christian legend it's got some interestingly Pagan undertones, but that's not too surprising. Early Christianity did try to consume Paganism like some big Jesusy borg, slapping new holidays over their equinoxes and whatnot, purely because it would be easier to win people over.

The towns name "Oswestry" is derived from "Oswald's Tree." The towns name in Welsh, "Croesoswallt" derives from "The cross of Oswald," although "Croeso" is also "Welcome" in Welsh, so it could be misconceived that the name derives from "Welcome Oswald." Except he wasn't welcome, was he? They chopped off his damn arm.

 

 

I decided to snap up a few more bits and bobs from the churches off-limits areas as I made my way up the tower, purely because the church is so riddled with history. There's been a worshiping site on this land for almost a thousand years, although it was apparently damaged and used as a barn during the Civil War, and it has been rebuilt twice since. But even so, everything here is delightfully ancient.

 

 

There's an entire room in the tower where old broken headstones have been displayed on the walls, naming people who died in the 1600s. It's absolutely amazing.

 

 

And also mounted on the wall is this "table of benefactions" listing names from as far back as 1604. 

 

 

The tower is as I expected, a big spiral staircase that wasn't designed for size twelve feet. I can't help being a genetic anomaly! I've had these monsters since birth! Mother thought she was having triplets when she saw the ultrasound. 

 

 

The bells are pretty awesome, and much larger in real life than my pictures convey.

 

And then finally, we have the top of the tower, and the awesome view.

 

 

And it's full of delicious nostalgia. That white building facing the street has a tiny flat-roofed single-storey building next to it, obscured somewhat by the trees. That was the original "Totally Games," a video game store that my friends and I used to hang out in while I was waiting for the bus home, which stopped conveniently right outside. Funnily enough Mayor Jay worked there for a bit too.

 

 

Over yonder is the church situated next to what's left of Oswestry castle hidden in that big cluster of trees. The big modern eyesore next to it is the library, and it's actually pretty awesome. It looks like there's some smoke rising somewhere over there, too. That's probably just the locals burning a witch or something.

 

 

My shots aren't the best. I've somehow taken a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and used it to produce images that can best be described as adequate. But that's okay! I'm here for the experience. I never thought I'd ever get to be here.

 

St Oswalds is rather sentimental to me.

 

I shall attempt to condense the tale, but back in the day Mother mixed with a lot of men that she shouldn't mix with, and some of these men weren't allowed around children. The ones that were hadn't been caught yet. And there are a few occasions where she'd facilitate and cover up after these men, provide alibi's and whatnot. It's not really my story to tell, so I won't really be going into great detail. But we were forbidden to talk about it. The outside world was presented as villains who would rip the family apart if they knew what was happening. I think Mother liked the thrill of doing something naughty, knowing that she'd get done if people found out. 

 

Well they did find out, and my younger siblings were put into care. I was a week away from turning sixteen, so I wasn't considered a child at risk, so I fell neatly through the cracks in the system. A few years later she attempted to justify it all to me with the curious analogy that when a teenager is told not to smoke, it just makes them want to do it more. And I guess that makes sense when we're discussing teenagers smoking, but not grown adult women letting child molesters into the house. I didn't articulate that very well. Instead I launched a tirade of angry word vomit, said a bunch of cruel things, and ended up being ordered to leave. And consequently I ended up sleeping here, in St Oswalds churchyard. So as lame as it sounds, this place was my first home. I associate it with my personal freedom.

 

But I wasn't here for very long. I sofa-surfed at a few friends houses, and eventually bagged myself a full-time sofa in someones drug den on Swan Lane, in a block of soulless apartments that has now been demolished and replaced with prettier houses.

But it's nice to return here now, to my original springboard into adult life, and see it through the eyes of a functioning member of society. It could have all gone very differently from that point. Some people never bounce back. But I have all the right boxes ticked. Full-time employment, my own home, etc, with the added bonus that I literally travel the world having crazy adventures. It's very strange to look back. I don't relate to Old Me. I feel like I'm watching someone else's memories. 

And in all honesty, I've climbed buildings, abseiled down mine shafts, and swam out to shipwrecks, but I've never been in more danger than I was growing up in that house. Throwing me out was a gift wrapped in anger.

 

 

But I don't like to dwell. Let's enjoy the view!

 

 

It's interesting to see the tennis courts, given that they're walled off. Alas, activities that require hand-eye coordination aren't really my jam, what with the dyspraxia.

 

 

And of course, we have a nice view over the park, with its bandstand. This park has been a part of my life since childhood. There's a playground, bowling greens, golf courses, benches galore, and wide open green space. It's actually a pretty damn good park, and doesn't come with the same criminal park keepers that we get in Shrewsbury's Quarry Park. It's all very nostalgic to me.

 

That's about all I've got. Special thanks to former Mayor Jay for pulling the strings and getting me up here. Special thanks to the church folks for going along with it. I'm a lover of history, and high places. This church ticked those boxes while giving me a good sense of nostalgia and a chance to look back at the uglier parts of my life and see how far I've come. 

Everything's great.

 

So anyway, to conclude, social media is an algorithmic hellscape that doesn't even show my posts to most of the people who follow me, but if you'd like to have a slim chance of seeing any future blogs, then follow me on Instagram and Facebook! I'm also Vero, Twitter, Reddit and Threads for some reason. I'm fishing for alternatives since the big cheeses are making an absolute mockery of what social media used to be, but unfortunately everywhere is slightly shit.

But hey-ho.

Thanks for reading!